ill-will generated for all

can connect unlikely differentials

the mind exploiting equality

can measure shared intuition

Within our langue, we find us, aura of place.
This while life's trapped meanings, words,
paroled, evoked thus, gesture one
through one, and no other.

While without, betwixt words, languid lessons,
failing to be learned, detail broad-strokes
of reality's brush painting us, the canvas,
the world, framelessly framed.

Yet, languorless, from a bird's eye,
this insight, inner flight to soul's
fathomless essence, unweaves
self's tapestry, to begin anew,

a word, path of study, walked it's way.
A time redefined by what's sublime, communal
solutioning concentrating, sans frontieres.
Shimmering stream to babbling brook's nook.

"The Visionary"



He is never where they look
Unless by accident they pierce him
The communal streets are crowded with the dominant pattern
Happy happy as real as it can possibly be
He is not there with them set in time and lock step
Curiouser than stubble on a young girls cheek
Like **** of a boar hog
Not able to leap anything
Just a drop in the bucket
The bucket in the ocean
And its ocean all the way down

Today, around 10 am of 20 Feb 2010.
For me, new time stared, then.
No wind blowing on the hill.
And no bird chirping.
Instead, bullets shooting –
And shouting, screaming, fulfill.
No places for me to escape.
Houses, shelters burnt to ashes.

Mountain of "Furomon", "Jamoshuk" standing with its glory.
Rugged street, crossing river, ivy tress lost its beauty.
Instead, obscured bodies laid down on the road.
Blood! Blood! Everywhere.
Someone command burn the house
And someone screaming
Help! Help! Please Help!
My father is chopped!
By chance, a sound from the crowd.
FIRE Ta! Ta! Ta! (Sound of gun)
Then blood and blood there, again somebody laid down.

No water swoops down from the white stream.
No gleaming hilly lady appears on the crag of hills.
No footprints laid down on the street of bazaar.
Even no midnight fisher man’s song on the "Karnafully" River.

No mother can still stop her screaming.
Not even my sister can stop her tear.
Ceaseless moan of them softly echoed in "CHT’s" air.

No wind of change for thousand years more.
No smile on their face, not even song of hope.
No law and right, no identity for us.
Whom are we waiting for?
I don’t even know what for.